


The Blurred Line of Reality

by Closeted_Bookworm



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Depends on what scares you, Dreams, Mildly anyways, POV Second Person, Scary, Sleep, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Closeted_Bookworm/pseuds/Closeted_Bookworm
Summary: SBI are your sleep paralysis demons. That's it. Mild horror elements, just a heads up.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 95





	1. A Feathered Blanket

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [hey girl i am your sleep paralysis demon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27572491) by [itisjosh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh). 



> If you found my fic before itisjosh's (the inspiration for this), you should totally go check out his stuff. I love it. 
> 
> Each chapter will be one member of SBI! Please enjoy :)

You’re flying, soaring through the air on wings reminiscent of a falcon’s. The wind whistles around you in a delightful symphony of musical breezes, and you feel like you can go anywhere if you only have the time to get there. You whoop with glee and do a barrel roll, but when you go to level out, you can’t stop. Your joy turns to terror as you spiral out of control, careening towards the ground. Just as you’re about to crash, you’re slammed back into the real world.

You gasp awake, heart rate skyrocketing. You immediately try to sit up, but you’re frozen, unable to move. None of your limbs are responding, and your scream is caught in your throat with no way out.

A shadow flickers from the side of the room, and your gaze fixates on the spot. A figure steps out from the darkness. He is not a tall man, but the wings sprouting from his back make him seem like he fills the whole room. They’re large and dark, shrouding him in an air of ominous claustrophobia and reminding you of the vultures that circle roadkill on the highway. The moonlight from the window plays across the ridges of the face you can’t help but recognize. You’ve been watching his streams and videos for years. The iconic bucket hat sits crooked on his head. 

With one flap of his powerful wings, he’s crossed the room, landing with a thump on your chest. His weight presses down on you as your eyesight is obscured by thousands of ebony feathers. He’s wearing some sort of heavy boots, and you feel as if your ribs might snap under the crushing force. A low chuckle rolls through the room, muffled under the clouds of the plumage covering your head. You struggle to keep taking deep breaths, willing yourself to snap out of whatever is holding you motionless. 

All at once, the apparition vanishes. The feathers are swept away in the blink of an eye, their owner gone with them. You shoot upright, anxiously scanning the room and thoughts tumbling helter-skelter from one worry to the next. A sigh of relief hesitantly leaves you. The room is empty once more.


	2. A Rising Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a reference to one of my all time favorite Wilbur videos, second only to "Minecraft, but Lava Rises Every Minute." It's how I found his channel.

Tonight, your dream takes you to a picturesque white sand beach, the grains so fine they slip silky-soft through your fingers like liquid. You bury your toes in the dunes and bask in the sunlight, waves lapping gently at the shore with soft greetings. The stretch of coast where you lie is deserted, and you feel completely at peace. 

A single black feather drifts past on a breeze, and your gut stirs uncomfortably. You’re not sure why. What harm could a feather do?

Then the beach abruptly drops away, and you’re back in your bedroom, frozen in place. You remember now. You look nervously towards the spot Philza appeared in before, but it’s empty. 

Someone leans over you, and your heart sinks. A tall man in a beanie and sweater is standing by your bedside table, looking down at you with an expression that says he knows what is going to happen to you, but he’s not about to tell. His hair is a little wilder than it is on stream, looking like it’s trying desperately to escape the confines of the knitted hat and the crazed glint in the eye of its owner. 

A soft beeping starts. Wilbur reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, silencing the alarm with a grin. He picks up the full drinking glass sitting on the table, then smashes it to the floor. He walks to the foot of your bed and points to the ceiling. You look up and suddenly forget how to breathe. A wall of water is descending in slow motion, inching closer by the second. Wilbur is smiling. For a moment, the ghostly image of goat horns flash on the sides of his head. 

All you can do is watch as the sheet of water falls towards you with agonizing slowness. Soon, it’s only a foot away. Wilbur’s head is underwater now, but he doesn’t seem to mind, the grin still cemented on his distorted features.

It touches your nose. You want desperately to flinch away from it, but you’re stuck. It slowly envelops your face, and you hold your breath for as long as possible, lungs burning. Just when you think you can’t wait for a moment longer, the water disappears. You draw in a long and shaky breath, sitting up and glancing at your bed stand to see the glass intact and full. You quickly run to the bathroom and dump it out with a shudder.


	3. A Joyful Sound

Your drenched form cleaves through the water, stubbornly stroking onward towards the distant shore. You can’t bear to put your nose below the surface, which is slowing you down, but you feel like if you do, something terrible will happen. A waterlogged feather hangs around your neck on a thin cord, black barbs ruffled and stiff from the constant slap of salty spray. It sometimes tickles your neck, and you despise the sensation, but you still don’t stop to remove it. 

You’re growing more tired by the second. Your limbs feel leaden and heavy, and your own body seems to be trying to drag you down to the depths of the sea, but you push doggedly forwards. 

You drag yourself onto the coarse sand with a groan of exhaustion, flopping onto your back. You made it. The sky is stormy and gray above you, and a forked tongue of dry lightning cracks through the gap between two clouds. Rain would be good for crops, you muse tiredly. 

A choked gasping sound reaches your ears, like a stifled cry of pain. It resonates oddly in your mind, like it’s been there before. As you concentrate on the noise, the barren beach gradually fades into mist, and you slowly become aware of the twisted bedclothes bunched up beneath you. The mist burns away, revealing your bedroom. The way your body refuses to respond is familiar, but no less terrifying. 

You keep your gaze trained on the ceiling directly above you. Maybe if you simply don’t look around, you won’t see whoever has come to visit you. 

There’s a soft chuckle from the corner. It starts low and breathy, but builds louder and louder with every second that passes, until it seems like the laughs must be sending the lungs bursting out of the chest of the person laughing. You can’t for the life of you figure out why it sounds so _familiar_. Finally you give in, and your eyes dart to the far end of your room.

A figure is bent-double just inside the pool of moonlight streaming through your window, sandy blond hair flying around his head in unrestrained wisps as he shakes with mirth. You at last recognize the explosive wheezing from his many streams. 

The sound is still growing more intense. Tommy throws his head back and positively roars with laughter, cackling with twisted glee as the fear builds in your head. You want the noise to stop. It’s painfully shrill in your ears, piercing your mind like a metal spike. You want to scream back, but your voice is dead in your throat. 

His eyes are so alive and bright they almost seem like they’re glowing, and the malicious smirk on his face is unlike anything you’ve seen from him on stream. The noise is never-ending. He doesn’t ever need to draw breath. 

It seems like hours, but it’s probably only been a few minutes when Tommy’s guffaws trickle off into chortles. He slips into your closet with a smug giggle, and your limbs are released. You dash to the door and yank it open, but there’s no longer a teenager crouched among the clothes. He’s gone without a trace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how badly I wanted to write BIG METAL PISTON SPIKE instead of just ‘metal spike’ when I was writing this. If you get the reference I love you even more now.


	4. A Buried Sprout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took longer than I thought it would. Ironically, the first idea I had took the longest for me to write. One member of SBI left :)

You find yourself seated at a desk in a very familiar office, messages in a Twitch chat flying past on the monitor and media shares pulled up on the screen, though the video, some clip of crashing waves, is currently paused. You’re afraid to start it playing again. If you press play, you might laugh, and that would be awful. You feel memories of why tickling at the back of your mind, but you can’t grasp them. 

Suddenly, the chat explodes with people spamming “BEHIND YOU” and “WATCH OUT.” You tense up, suddenly afraid to turn around. Logically, the only thing that should be there is a clock hanging innocuously from a hook, but something whispers that a sinister presence is hovering over your shoulder. 

A wispy sensation shivers on your neck. Someone is running a feather across the exposed skin, you can feel the ends catching on the seam of your shirt. You close your eyes tight and clench the ends of the table.

You feel yourself tip and fall from the chair, gasping as the floor drops away and sends you tumbling through empty space. Jagged boulders rush up to meet you, but you jolt awake just before you’re smashed into the rocks. Your forehead is slick with a thin sheen of sweat, and your joints are locked in place. 

The demon does not wait long to make its appearance. He lets himself in through the bedroom door and closes it with a soft click, facing away from you. Long, pale hair hangs down his back, and he has a rucksack slung over one shoulder. A dark crimson cape sweeps around his ankles, the hem fluttering in an imaginary breeze. 

He turns around, and you mentally flinch as his boar’s skull mask is revealed, yellowed and weathered from years of exposure to rough conditions. The tusks gleam razor sharp, curving into an eerie smile, and glowing scarlet pupils wink through the eye sockets. A golden circlet glints on his brow. 

He walks purposefully towards you, taking the bag from his back and rooting through it. He pulls out a garden trowel and sets the pack gently down on your bedside table, looming over you. Despite his terrifying appearance, his mannerisms don’t seem threatening, they’re meticulous and humble. 

He reaches out and rests a hand on your stomach. His fingers dig into your skin, and it crumbles like soil under his touch. You look away in revulsion. He digs the shovel into your abdomen and digs up a scoop of your powdery insides, pulverizing the structure of your intestines. It’s horrifying to behold, but you feel no pain and he is still maintaining his unconcerned demeanor. He sorts through the sack again, removing a handful of small potatoes. He digs his fingers into the “dirt” and hollows out half a dozen divots, carefully nestling a potato in each one. 

You watch him pack soil over the vegetables with your guts twisted up inside and the beginnings of nausea twitching in your stomach. He produces a watering can and sprinkles enough over the spuds so that the dirt is mildly damp, then stores all his supplies back in the bag. 

He nods in satisfaction and slips back out the door, cape swishing behind him with the sound of branches rustling. 

You’re stuck for a while, gaze fixed on the plants buried in your abdomen. They gradually sink down into you until the dirt covers them completely. The next time you blink, your shirt is back in place like nothing ever happened and your limbs are freed. 

You hesitantly reach forward and press against your stomach. Nothing feels different. But you can’t get the image out of your head. Surely, there are no potatoes inside you now. It was nothing but a nightmare. 

They all were. 

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I have one less WIP! Which one was your favorite? (or least favorite, depending on how you look at it)

**Author's Note:**

> If you can leave a comment, I love to get them!


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